Never Summer Again

Chapter Fifty-Two - Do.You.Hear.Me?

Mark/Lydia

Score:Never Really Over - Katy Perry

Lydia

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. I am suddenly overwhelmed by this vibrating energy, buzzing through my body, and sending crackles down my spine.

I slide the Louis Vuitton bag higher up on my shoulder and I look at my phone in my hand. A huge drop of rainwater instantaneously plops onto the screen from my hair.

I order a Uber, and, as I stand there on the sidewalk, waiting for the car to come and pick me up, I feel the restlessness escalate to dangerous levels.

What the fuck are you doing, Lydia? My conscious mind pops her head up from her current occupation, namely, counting the fifty thousand fucking pounds in the bag on my shoulder. I stomp my foot.

"Enough!" I say out loud, silencing her.

My heart is racing, and cold sweat is mixing with the rainwater, falling on my face.

A Prius pulls up at the curb right in front of me and it is my cue to check the license plates and confirm that's my ride. I climb in and am immediately met by the driver's disapproving look in the rearview mirror, as my clothes are dripping on his seats.

"Heathrow Airport, madam?" The driver asks his eyes black beads in the rearview mirror.

I swallow with effort and just nod, not able to speak around the lump in my throat. His eyes take in my wet hair, and my soaked clothes and acknowledge the absence of luggage. Then, he just nods and his eyes move away, and I feel sudden relief, like, I just want to be left alone and his eyes were stepping into my personal space. The car peels off the curb and begins to claw its way out of the afternoon traffic.

I take my phone out again and pull up the Heathrow Airport website. I go straight to Departures, then I go to my messages and look at the one from Gloria, containing Mark's flight details.

Yes, I didn't delete that screenshot Gloria sent me. Honestly, right now, this makes me feel sick of myself. Like I was holding on to some stupid hope that we can actually make things better.

I hesitate for a bit, but I go back into the site, and type in Mark's flight number in the search box.

"Fucking pussy..." I hiss to myself.

"Excuse me, madam?"

It is only, when the driver's appalled voice cuts through my thoughts that I realize I said the last bit out loud.

"Nothing," I say, louder this time, straightening my back. "It's nothing."

His gaze narrows in the rearview mirror, but he slides his eyes onto the road again.

I wait until Mark's flight comes up and check the status, next to it. Check-in. It is supposed to leave in two hours, which gives me plenty of time to decide what to do.

I huff out a loud breath, then close my eyes and roll my neck, relaxing my head on the backrest. With a sigh, I try to completely mold myself into the seat, while I try to collect my thoughts.

My heart is pounding against my ribcage as if it wants to make a run for it. I don't blame it. I've put it through so much, when it comes to Mark, that, honestly, I'd try to bail myself, if I was in its position.

Patrick's words are still ringing in my ears. "You could never love me the way you love him, but that's OK."

Do I love Mark?

I was just about to tell him I loved him the night it all came out. I was about to confess my love for him, giving him the last piece of me he didn't know he had yet.